Yesterday was the Prez's birthday. That meant going to Makati the second time this week. It also meant taking the jeepney and the bus again. Yes, I still am too chicken to drive in the big city.
But it was one of the best days of the recent years.
The jeepney driver conducted his trade like a pro, like a very dignified pro. He called the motherly commuters "mommy" and asked "paki bilang po kung tama ang sukli." He addresed everyone with "po" and always said "thank you" each time a fare was handed to him. There truly is dignity in every work we do, in every job there is. And people can truly make simple things grand. That driver could have made a great COO or VP for Customer Service! You think of that and you remember the assholes in your offices, assholes in coat and tie, assholes in Floursheim and Lumberjack, assholes in corporate pigeonholes, in impeccable corporate English fcuk-you's.
And you feel good meeting common workers like that driver and you thank God for showing you some human decency and you realize all is not lost.
I got off the jeepney feeling alive, walked a little to the national road. While I was about to cross the street, I noticed an old lady rooted to the ground and was uneasy looking at all types of vehicles, big and small moving to and from the old San Pedro National Road. She was just about two feet from where I stood so I asked her if she wanted to cross the street. She looked up at me (she had this little stoop) and nodded and said timidly "opo." She must be about 80 years old and she addressed me with this ennobling Filipino word "opo"! She must have been standing there long and nobody cared to help her cross the street! Argh!
So I moved to her left and took her hand and we crossed the street together. Since the old lady couldn't walk fast, I signaled the vehicles to slow down as we crossed the road. When finally we got to the other side of the street, I released her hand and she looked up at me again. This time she smiled and said, "Salamat po." I was too stunned to say anything, not even "Ingat po kayo."
A jeepney driver and a grandmother made my day yesterday. They made me forget the wrongs done to me recently. They gave me the answer to my questions: What do you feel knowing that God also loves those who hurt you? What do you feel knowing that God forgives even those you cannot?
Meeting those two blessed individuals made me realize that I have a good life, not because I am good, but because God is. That I am blessed not because I believe, but because God is merciful. That God allows me to see real beauty in human beings not because I asked him to, but because He wants to show me He does exist, even if sometimes I doubt it.
Friday, April 11, 2008
Sunday, March 23, 2008
Desire Is The First
By Bliss Cua Lim
Desire is the first to be colonized
and the last to be freed.
Before and behind me,
my strong, scarred mothers,
weak only where their men were concerned.
How long before I learned what was owing to you,
what was owing to me,
brought up to believe that loneliness
was lack of that which echoes in operas I sing poorly,
love, which brought all heroines to death.
No, we must not seize pleasure at each other's expense:
how could we then condemn
that mindless ease made possible by
the unlamented labor of those without song?
Too many dare to be beautiful but not to be brave.
But sisters surround me on ancient afternoons,
calling out canticles with throats thick with tears:
god has not responded, but we must sound our power.
Desire is the first to be colonized
and the last to be freed.
Before and behind me,
my strong, scarred mothers,
weak only where their men were concerned.
How long before I learned what was owing to you,
what was owing to me,
brought up to believe that loneliness
was lack of that which echoes in operas I sing poorly,
love, which brought all heroines to death.
No, we must not seize pleasure at each other's expense:
how could we then condemn
that mindless ease made possible by
the unlamented labor of those without song?
Too many dare to be beautiful but not to be brave.
But sisters surround me on ancient afternoons,
calling out canticles with throats thick with tears:
god has not responded, but we must sound our power.
Song For Unrequited Love
By Bliss Cua Lim
You turn towards me and your face fills the frame.
All spaces and moments collapse in these eyes, this smile,
the sudden rush of tenderness that seizes me.
I long to nourish you like the night.
I want to watch over your strength as you slumber,
and tend to the sinews of your softness.
If only it were possible,
I would woo you without compunction,
and when I won you, would
cherish you as shadows do that shelter
the wounded, exquisite lineaments of the moon:
with the grateful ardor of lovers who know
contingent evenings cede to the obstrusive dawn.
You turn towards me and your face fills the frame.
All spaces and moments collapse in these eyes, this smile,
the sudden rush of tenderness that seizes me.
I long to nourish you like the night.
I want to watch over your strength as you slumber,
and tend to the sinews of your softness.
If only it were possible,
I would woo you without compunction,
and when I won you, would
cherish you as shadows do that shelter
the wounded, exquisite lineaments of the moon:
with the grateful ardor of lovers who know
contingent evenings cede to the obstrusive dawn.
Tuesday, March 18, 2008
Creek Line
My room is parallel to the creek that used to reek with garbage some years ago. Now, it only has slow moving, smell-free water on rocks surrounded by small plants which I cannot name because I'm neither a botanist nor an environmentalist. There are trees outside my room - mango, jackfruit, banana (not a tree, but a plant?), kamias, and guava (which is now just a dead wood). These I can name because, well, I eat them.
And I wonder why can't the rest of nature's bodies be this way - from junk to greens? Better yet, why can't everyone be like my mother? Early in the morning, one can hear her sweeping the grounds with a broomstick (no, she isn't a witch) which is more like a prayer than a clockwork. Later, she will carry all the swept trash to the old pig sty to burn them. The smoke becomes the trees' breakfast of bacon and tea.
My mother has learned the language of the wind that my room is no longer a victim of unwanted smoke that used to turn me into a human tinapa.
And often, I write my blog in this room. My blog so named, the Creek Line.
And yes, mother is down by the creek, cleaning the area for the day ahead.
And I wonder why can't the rest of nature's bodies be this way - from junk to greens? Better yet, why can't everyone be like my mother? Early in the morning, one can hear her sweeping the grounds with a broomstick (no, she isn't a witch) which is more like a prayer than a clockwork. Later, she will carry all the swept trash to the old pig sty to burn them. The smoke becomes the trees' breakfast of bacon and tea.
My mother has learned the language of the wind that my room is no longer a victim of unwanted smoke that used to turn me into a human tinapa.
And often, I write my blog in this room. My blog so named, the Creek Line.
And yes, mother is down by the creek, cleaning the area for the day ahead.
Sunday, March 16, 2008
Miscalculation
I don't usually drive on a Monday. Not when the stretch between Soutwoods Exit and Filinvest Corporate City Entrance is one hell of an obstacle course. Lanes change in head spinning regularity, the road you're on now may be the road blocked off later. And signs and barricades prove useless when you are on the road with blood-thirsty jeepney and bus drivers always ready for the kill for the extra minutes they can snatch to get ahead at the terminal line or pick passengers at the landing of Magallanes Interchange.
But today is an extraodinary Monday. I took a jeepney to Alabang via Susana Heights. Over the bridge and down the long SLEX highway was nary a sign of traffic congestion. Holy Monday!
I reached my office building. I looked around me and the side street parking was almost empty. I hate coming to work after 8 as there are usually no parking space left for me. The guard always nudges me to use my slot at the basement parking, the steep and narrow basement parking. Thanks, but no thanks.
Being the boss, I was approached by one of the staff to confirm 9:05's meeting. I asked if there is any reason why it should not push through. One said yes. I thought it was valid. I asked for the best time this morning. My OM texted me 11:30 a.m.
So between now and then, I am free to nurse my still throbbing third molar and take things sitting down while the anti-biotic meds massacre all my body's bacteria, both good and evil.
But today is an extraodinary Monday. I took a jeepney to Alabang via Susana Heights. Over the bridge and down the long SLEX highway was nary a sign of traffic congestion. Holy Monday!
I reached my office building. I looked around me and the side street parking was almost empty. I hate coming to work after 8 as there are usually no parking space left for me. The guard always nudges me to use my slot at the basement parking, the steep and narrow basement parking. Thanks, but no thanks.
Being the boss, I was approached by one of the staff to confirm 9:05's meeting. I asked if there is any reason why it should not push through. One said yes. I thought it was valid. I asked for the best time this morning. My OM texted me 11:30 a.m.
So between now and then, I am free to nurse my still throbbing third molar and take things sitting down while the anti-biotic meds massacre all my body's bacteria, both good and evil.
The Absence Of
Darkness is the absence of...
Hunger is the absence of ...
Death is the absence of ...
Lie is the absence of ...
Problem is the absence of ...
Failure is the absence of ...
Hate is the absence of ...
Sin is the absence of ...
Boredom is the absence of the Internet.
I read somewhere that all negative things start with the absence of something. You think of something that's negative, and you know it is because of a certain lack. We just can't get enough. Not enough love. Not enough money. Not enough food. Not enough opportunities. Not enough zest. Not enough fun. Not enough power. Not enough influence.
And i stop to think, is it really the absence of life or not enough love for life. Is it really the lack of great things to do or not enough joy for what's before us?
Life is 10% what happens to you and 90% how you react to it. And yes, I read that somewhere. I read a lot and i can't get enough of it.
Hunger is the absence of ...
Death is the absence of ...
Lie is the absence of ...
Problem is the absence of ...
Failure is the absence of ...
Hate is the absence of ...
Sin is the absence of ...
Boredom is the absence of the Internet.
I read somewhere that all negative things start with the absence of something. You think of something that's negative, and you know it is because of a certain lack. We just can't get enough. Not enough love. Not enough money. Not enough food. Not enough opportunities. Not enough zest. Not enough fun. Not enough power. Not enough influence.
And i stop to think, is it really the absence of life or not enough love for life. Is it really the lack of great things to do or not enough joy for what's before us?
Life is 10% what happens to you and 90% how you react to it. And yes, I read that somewhere. I read a lot and i can't get enough of it.
An Email Dated November 20, 2004
i dug through my e-mails searching for the key to my forgotten password so i may blog again the creek line. and burried deep is an e-mail sent on my birthday four years ago. from you. leo.
both scorps, you and i believe in the supernatural, in the unseen, in the unknown. but we try to keep sane. no, not try. we are sane. we just believe in things most sane people don't.
both scorps, we enjoy what most people enjoy. but we enjoy it with the madness of the wicked, of the shameless. and the same madness forgives us for not wanting it the longest time one endures before one dies. wanting it.
both scorps, our humor is our own. we laugh at them who don't. we conceal mirth for pleasure. we love. we lust. we forgive. we sin. we own up. we cry. in the dark. and smile with eyes on the ground and hands on our lips.
i wonder what part of the globe you are now. i can't read latitudes and longitudes. all lines are the same to me. no verticals. just horizons.
both scorps, you and i believe in the supernatural, in the unseen, in the unknown. but we try to keep sane. no, not try. we are sane. we just believe in things most sane people don't.
both scorps, we enjoy what most people enjoy. but we enjoy it with the madness of the wicked, of the shameless. and the same madness forgives us for not wanting it the longest time one endures before one dies. wanting it.
both scorps, our humor is our own. we laugh at them who don't. we conceal mirth for pleasure. we love. we lust. we forgive. we sin. we own up. we cry. in the dark. and smile with eyes on the ground and hands on our lips.
i wonder what part of the globe you are now. i can't read latitudes and longitudes. all lines are the same to me. no verticals. just horizons.
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